


How Deep is Your Love?

by Suzthesnooze



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Dirty Talk, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Necromancy, Necrophilia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Resurrection, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzthesnooze/pseuds/Suzthesnooze
Summary: (Toonverse w/ Movie vibes) One dark stormy night, a mourner seeks to reunite with her departed lover. Biblically. This was for a Babes-Week prompt on Tumblr: Graveyard.
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	How Deep is Your Love?

Obscured in her cape of black, the night creature swept through the fog like a specter, brisk pace unwavering from the grim path.

Clouds still burdened with rain sagged over the township and left a dense fog in the wake of the dissipating showers. No creature stirred. No light gleamed from the moonless heavens. Only the pebbled stones, arranged in neat rows behind a large iron gate, bore witness to their solitary night visitor.

She held a dimmed gaslamp aloft as she passed the cemetery threshold with ease. Familiarity, even. Peaceful Pines, a valley town quaintly nestled in their assumed sanctuary, saw no reason to secure the dead beyond the safety of the graves they slept in. 

They had no reason to fear or suspect others finding mischief (and other treasures) here.

A stormy night had only just blown over, the earth soft as it clung to petite black riding boots. The repetitive squeak of a rusted wheelbarrow bounced off the trees, stones, and tombs. The prize she sought lay near the back of the old burial ground; where nature had weathered away and reclaimed the gravel path with looping vines, aged engravings filled with layers of fuzzy dark moss.

The incessant squeaking halted. Suddenly, the way forward became too thick with life, and the hooded lady moved on to plucking her way through the overgrowth with purpose. The gaslamp illuminated old stones, the names and dates too faded to decipher save the occasional indication of the legacy of those below: “beloved” or “departed”. “Father”. “Mother.” “Here Lies”. 

She came to a little clearing, well hidden from the path and the gate. Red lips curved into a lovely smile at the small plaque she found on a water-worn rock. Leather gloved hands delicately pulled away the fallen leaves to reveal a long lost name:

B______ J_______

“ _There you are,”_ she whispered.

The great work began. A shovel was produced from her wheelbarrow and she set about her desecration. Layers upon layers of leaf and earth were pulled back. Thick clay caked the trim of her cape and threatened to swallow her boots. Often, she’d have to hack away at thick roots or sully her gloves to remove a stone from her path down, down, down into the deep black earth.

Hours passed imperceptibly, the night visitor only occasionally stopping to wipe her fair brow or catch her breath; the creatures of the surrounding wood found occasion to sing their curiosity. A chorus of buzzing crickets inspired her to hum a gentle tune of her own as she dug.

When, mercifully, her shovel struck something with a satisfyingly hollow ‘thunk’, the lady abandoned her shovel and dropped to her sullied, skirted knees to begin brushing the wet earth away with her hands. Gloves too burdensome, she tossed them up and out of the hole so she could claw the meddlesome clay away in clumps. 

The wooden lid graced her palms and she let out a short, breathless laugh of relief. How deep they’d buried her love. It took comparably less effort to pry the lid away and view that which lay inside.

A man, solidly built, lay in undisturbed slumber. His familiar striped suit was stained and faded, though it had never been tidy to begin with. The woman knelt in the old box with him, her dirtied pale hand coming to cup his frigid, stubbly cheek. Her enchantment had worked, her romantic heart mused. He had not been touched by his time in the ground and had the appearance of one asleep rather than dead. He’d been kept just as she remembered him. A sign, as clear as so many others before, that they were never meant to be parted. Not even in death.

“My love,” the widow breathed, tempted to lie down here in his wormy bedding and stay, pressed to her lover’s unmoving breast, for all time. But a drop on her cheek signaled the coming of another shower. “We should be getting home.”

Dragging herself out of the hole had been challenging enough, as her grip slipped and faltered each time she attempted to crawl her way out of the open grave. The task of wrapping him in burlap -- to protect from further marring -- and wrestling his bulky form into a seated position proved a marathon of torment. It was rivaled in difficulty only by the graceless test of dragging him up the slick dirt with a rope tied around his booted ankles. With each step her knees threatened to buckle from the strain. 

Though, love often came with such trials.

Panting heavily, the mud-covered lady finally managed the burlap form into her wheelbarrow, arranging his wrapped form as gently as she could, and began the merciless trek away from God’s acre.

The Deetz residence rested atop a hill, looming high over Peaceful Pines. The township knew so little of the residents within that many believed it sat empty. Others whispered that it was haunted, unholy. A superstitious few even speculated a witch had roosted upon that foggy crest and went about her dark dealings by night. 

They had little idea of how right they were.

The side door blew in with the lightest push, rain and leaves bellowing from behind a tattered cape as the lovers entered and shut out the cold and the rain behind them. A wide, flat space had been prepared for him, warm despite the chill of night. She arranged him there, removed the ropes, and pulled the hood of her cape down at last.

“Patience,” she urged the restlessly still form. Her lover did not respond. “I’m as eager as you are. But we’ll need to get out of these wet clothes, first.”

Fair-skinned and beautiful was his mourning lady, her pitch hair mussed from the cape. She tugged her locks back into as tidy a bun as she could manage. Briefly, she fretted that she wouldn’t have time to prepare herself for their blessed reunion. But he always said he found her beautiful, made up or messy. 

“No peeking," she chided over her shoulder, certain she could feel his crisp golden gaze lifting the fine hairs along the stretch of her neck. When she glanced, she found him as she'd left him and smiled. He was not known for obedience.

Candles arranged around the room sent orange light flickering about the dark kitchen, playing over the lady as she set about removing her wet overclothes. When she was down to her soft cotton shift and free of her rain heavy garments, her attentions returned to the muddy bundle on her table.

A peal of thunder shook the domain with fury, causing the candles to flutter. The roar dissipated slowly until the house was left silent as a tomb‒ save the patter of rain against the roof. It was jarring to see him so still. She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering how it had felt in his when they danced. Oh, how they had danced. How he would twirl her until the world whirled away. How he would curl her tightly under his chin, nimble hands pressed to her back as they gently swayed. The sweet and sultry nothings he whispered, only for her ears. They didn’t need music. He could find rhythm in the sound of rain‒ or sometimes, if she were lucky, he'd croon a gentle song horribly against her dark hair. 

Now with only the symphony of rain against her windows, she longed for the croak of his voice.

“You’re here, now," she assured herself aloud, desperate to dispel the grief. “Here with me... and I don’t intend to let you go again.”

With new determination, she found the courage to free him of his muddy wrappings. It was disposed of along with his filthy boots on the floor. With meticulous care, his jacket was unbuttoned and gingerly pulled down his arms. She delighted in loosening his tie, toying with its tail as she had hundreds of times before. He would call her a tease and snatch her up, never patient enough to be fully dressed down. 

He brought so much zest to her life. Such energy. They had always been a perfect balance to one another. She wished more than anything that he would stir, death be damned, and punish her for her languid, tantalizing pace. 

She found herself speeding through the buttons of his shirt, far too eager herself now. The sight of his exposed chest left the wild-eyed widow breathless, trembling. He was a heartily built man, muscled under a soft layer of pudge. He had always led a sinfully hedonistic lifestyle. To her delight and the dread of his many foes, he was much stronger than he looked. The many nights she spent held up against a wall, toes never once touching the ground as he took all he wanted was proof enough of that. She ached to crawl up, lay with him, curl herself into his sullied arms. But there was yet more to be done before she and her love could reunite fully. After all, his journey here had been a long one. It was only right that she treat her beloved with the care he so deserved. 

Trying to banish the wicked thoughts from her brain, if only for a moment, she reached for the clean water basin and cloth she prepared and set to work. He wasn’t overly fond of bathing, unlike his prim lady love, but surely he wouldn’t be opposed to her removing the grave dirt from his cool flesh. Perhaps the water may even warm him. For her own sake. 

If she knew anything of him, she knew he would‒ and could‒ conceive a million ways just to make her happy. 

Pulling up her shift, she crawled up to straddle his hips. Trying not to focus too much on the impropriety of this position, lest she turn bright red with shame, the dark lady began gently toweling down his pale, mottled flesh until he was relatively free of grime. With loving strokes, she rinsed away the dirt in her basin and left glistening trails across his chest, the firm roundness of his gut, the bulk of his shoulders and wirey lengths of his arms. 

Busying herself with his messy blonde hair she adjusted her position. Knees aching against the wood, she was met with something hard prodding against her rump. Nearly knocked off-kilter by the shock of it, her hooded gaze peeked over her shoulder and down to find what she had guessed but could not fathom; a familiar tent in the front of her dead lover’s striped trousers.

She was in utter disbelief. A glance at his face proved he had not roused from his eternal slumber. Carefully, the dark-haired maiden turned about-face, straddling his gut so she could examine this morbid medical oddity. The morbid beauty had read many books on the subject of the dead. In one, she discovered, with rosy cheeks and a mouth full of cotton, that the recently deceased occasionally experienced uncontrollable muscle spasms. Corpses were known to clench or unclench their fists. Appear to breathe. Even open and close their eyes. One particularly descriptive journal dispensed with all fanfare and described the corpses of hanged men appearing to become aroused due to the settling of blood in their twitching extremities. 

It was only a technicality. He wasn’t reacting to anything she had done, she reminded herself to try and slow her racing heart. That wasn’t possible. Her love, though it ached in her heart to think it, was no longer there in spirit. Only his body lay before her.

Yet, she thought, she could always pretend...

Some part of her warned against the slowly forming idea. Would she be considered wicked? An affront to god? Unholy? Unspeakable?

_You’ve already gone this far,_ she justified. He was hers and she was his. How could it be wrong when they promised eternity to one another? And, who was to say this was not yet another miracle brought about by her enchantments? Another sign from her lost love, perhaps? She didn’t wish to disturb his spirit if he was here. Wouldn’t he want this just as badly as she? Wouldn’t he _need_ it _?_

“Oh… love…” words escaped her lips, trembling, and she swallowed to wet her dry throat.

She was shocked to find him reactive to her gentle touch, even through fabric. Curious. Unthinking, with practiced ease, she freed the pale, heavy girth from his trousers and smoothed a warm palm over his frigid tip. There was no pulse, of course, but the light twitch of muscle beneath his flesh was unmistakable. Emboldened, transfixed by her own dark desires, she cupped his balls in her opposite hand, rolling them firmly in her palm. 

She gave his shaft a few tentative strokes, refamiliarizing herself with the sensation. Pale digits curled over each ridge, the thick vein down his wickedly curved length, a little freckle near his base she’d teased him for. She throbbed with want of him, urging her on to satiate more of this steadily mounting dark hunger.

The next time her hand passed over his swollen head, it came away wet. Closer examination proved that each involuntary twitch left slick beading from his cockmouth.

Could the dead…? 

No, surely not. Her books hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort, nor did she think her enchantment knew what she intended to do with her dearly departed this night. All she wanted was to see him again, just as he was. Still, with the sweetness she never denied him in life, she kissed the bead of slick away and shivered at the taste. Her shaded eyes popped wide when the lifeless flesh twitched in her hand. 

“Can you feel all this, wherever you are?” she whispered into the night. “Can you tell how deeply i’ve missed you?

Well beyond the point of no return, her raven head dipped low to press a ruby kiss to the veritable rat’s nest at his base, his short hairs tickling her nose, repeating up his length by mere agonizing centimeters. He was distinctly chilly against her lips, yet she worshipped all the same with a fiendish delight that surprised her. When at last she blessed his tip with a final kiss, her mouth lingered, breathing hard. She wet her lips, tasting him there, and gave him a tentative lick. Followed soon by another, and another, until the tip rested cool and heavy against her curled tongue and she took him into her mouth in earnest. 

Delicate hands found his thick base and drew back his sheath, that clever tongue swirling around the ridge of his purple tip. Her cleaning of his body had done little to fix the musky taste of sweat and salt and something she did not wish to identify, though she scarcely had the presence of mind to mind. The sound of her moaning reverberated against her teeth and she widened her jaw, bobbing evenly, slowly, sucking just the way he liked. 

Only once her jaw ached and spit had thoroughly drenched her chin did she draw up for a breath with a ‘ _pop_ ’. She moaned at the sight of his glistening cock. Was he bigger than before?

“I want you so badly it aches, love. ” she spoke in a desperate hush, as though afraid she may hear her own blasphemous words and shriek at the terror of it all. It was wrong, the stuff of nightmares. Surely, she’d gone mad in her grief. “So why not pretend? Just for tonight... we could be together again...”

She pulled her shift up and over her head, letting black tresses fall from the bun she had managed them into, completely bare in the glimmering candlelight. Sweat prickled the small of her back, her pits and the backs of her legs. Despite the cool flesh of her lover, she was left flushed and panting. Dark eyes shut as she let her hands drag with luscious slowness up her thighs, her taut belly, the gentle slope of her supple breasts. She gripped herself there, hard, like he would, and let out a sharp sigh.

“Aah! _Beej_.”

The storm outside raged, battering the shutters. One hand slid down her flat belly and deftly spread herself with nimble fingers to alleviate the desperate throb of her slick cunt. Memories flashed behind her eyelids, manifested on her flesh. 

She imagined the pads of his thumbs, their rough workman’s texture, ghosting over her pebbled nipples, tugging one little bud into that wretched mouth and leaving it flushed and tender from ravenous suckling. They’d not been lovers of rose petals and fine wine. Their nights were spent wrapped up in black blasphemy, Invested only in the utter undoing of one another. Snide remarks were their love language and she was always good enough to offer the challenge her demented lover craved. 

He was always good enough to accept. Wicked hands tangled in her dark tresses, he would whisper the most sinful promises dripping with adoration against the shell of her ear, the crux of her throat, growling low and lusty like some unholy beast. “So fucking _beautiful._ ” 

She recalled the agony of trembling, bruised thighs as strong arms folded them down against her chest. She heard herself pleading for mercy, wailing with each deliciously furious crack of his powerful hips against hers. She feared splintering the headboard as her nails scrabbled for purchase. “ _Don’t you want it? Beg, Babes. Beg for me.”_

_“Please!”_

A desperate cry escaped her throat. Damnation be damned. She needed him _now._ Dark eyes snapped open, blown wide and wild with frantic lust, and all sense of propriety or fears of her impending madness vanished as she adjusted the position of her hips. Her hand dripped with her own slick, and she made quick work of spreading it up and down his thick length. Straddling him properly now, she lifted high and pressed down until his cock finally, mercifully, stretched her wide and seated deep within her.

He stirred.

A scream of terror tore from her throat as thick digits wrap over her mouth, having anticipated it. Solid, cold flesh pressed firmly against her spine. Hot tears spilled down her flushed cheek to pool in the tight clasp of the corpse’s fingers. _His_ fingers. She whimpered, losing herself to the bliss and the horror all at once. It couldn’t. It wasn’t. Oh, god, god in heaven. 

She’d truly gone mad.

_“Ssssssshhhh…._ ” hissed a voice that chilled her clear to her core, sending a shiver from the top of her head to her toes. _“You should be careful what you wish for, Lydia.”_

“B-Betel-- _ah!_ ”

He hooked one jagged claw into her mouth as she cried out. It slowly dissipated into a bawdy moan as he added another and pressed them down against her lolling tongue.

“Suck.”

Terrified to deny him, Lydia closed her lips as best she could, wetting his probing digits. He pulled them out, her lips left puffy and wet with spit, and the corpse’s hand shot down between her legs. He needed no guidance in pressing back her hood with his pointer and ring finger, the middle trained to her swollen clit in an instant. Lydia trembled, jolted, and would have collapsed forward onto his propped knees if not for a second wicked paw curled over her throat to secure her against him.

“Uh uh, babes, no no no…” the devil chastised, his voice all gravel against her ear. A nasty bite to its delicate lobe made her inhale sharply. “Y _ou_ don’t get to rest if I don’t. What’s that they say about the _wicked?_ ”

“I-I’m sss-sorry, Beej, I-- _AHN!”_

He bucked up once, hard, gritting his gnarled teeth at the vice-tight squeeze of her walls. He felt her wiggle her hips, try to widen the stance of her thighs on either side of him. It was all the leeway he needed. 

  
  
  


Lydia was caught between hysteria and bliss, holding on for dear life as she bounced on her dead man’s cock. His ass left the table with the strength of each thrust, met in measure as she pressed down into his lap. The wet cacophony of their horrific love-making echoed throughout the room and Lydia’s ears rang. Her mind swam. Too hot, too cold, she could hardly tell up from down or his flesh from her’s--

“This what you wanted?” The merciless creature snarled cold against her shoulder. “Wanted to fuck some dead, nasty fuck you dug up from the yard?” 

Lydia keened, shame prickling her the back of her neck where she felt his serpent’s gaze. 

“Ugh, yeeah… I know you. Fuckin’ filthy.” though he seemed not to mind too much, as the pace of his thrusts increased at this lusty confessional. “‘Cause nothing else does it for you, huh? Nothing makes you want… makes you **_wet_ ** like cold, wet, dirty _dead_ cock.”

“Nn-... B.J.Oh, fuck--!”

Her non-answer was not enough to satisfy him, it seemed. Cruel hands shot to her hips, gripping the soft flesh there. The slap of his balls against her stung each time he rammed up. His bruising pace left the tight muscle at her very core aching from constant pressure. 

“ _Say it._ ” Came the command, grunted in a voice more animal than human. “Say you love it, Lyds. So fuckin’ _close--_ ”

“I-I’m a whore!” she all but shrieked. “Dirty, wicked, grave-robbing corpse fucking slut, oh jesus christ _Beej cum in me_ \--”

He needed no convincing. Betelgeuse snarled a curse against her ear, something she could barely understand, rapid pace of his hips sputtering until he stilled with a shout. His balls drew up tight against her, length throbbed and twitched within her molten coils. He pulsed ice-cold spunk, flooded her belly, felt the kiss of her cervix on his cockhead flutter and give and Lydia’s world crashed around her, lost to the sound of her own screaming in the arms of a dead man.

They remained locked together that way for what must have been centuries, mindless to anything but the slick press of their bodies. The hot and cold they panted into the night air. Lydia slouched on his lap, resting fully against him in her exhaustion. She found those merciless hands that had left marks on her hips only moments ago braced around her middle, tight, helping to support her slack frame. He pressed a sloppy kiss against her ear and she giggled breathlessly at the unusual sweetness of the gesture. _Old softy._

_“Goddamn, Lyds…”_

Betelgeuse finally seems to rouse from his stupor. Cock deflating, he slopped out of her gracelessly, painting her inner thigh with a generous coating of their combined mess on his way out. A little flood of cum bubbled out of Lydia in his absence, soothing the red, hot, satisfied ache he’d made of her mound. Now sat in front of him, their legs outstretched before them, Lydia’s neck cramped and she woozily managed to bring her head upright. She sighed dreamily, leaning her soft cheek against the stubbled jaw that had come to rest on her shoulder. 

“So much for the whole being dead thing, Beej. I don’t recall discussing a miraculous fuck resurrection as part of the story.”

“Heat’a the moment, Babes. Divine inspiration.” he panted, only just coming down from his orgasmic high. “That and your little sob routine was killing my mojo.”

Lydia huffed a laugh, legs trembling as she pulled away to sit on the edge of the wooden counter. Hopefully mother wouldn’t notice the strange new stains on her fancy kitchen island. 

“Besides, how the hell were you expecting me to keep up the stiff routine all night? Cruelty, I tell ya. Abuse.”

“Poor you.” Lydia cooed. “Don’t worry, I’ll go dig up a real corpse next time who won’t have nearly as many complaints.”

Lydia found herself snatched backwards and let out a startled laugh as he pulled her down until she was staring up at the ceiling with a happy grin. Raven head resting in his lap, she razzed at the disheveled ghost teasingly. His cool hand swept her bangs from her sweaty forehead.

“Lissen here, Lydia Deetz. I’m the only dead guy allowed within a thousand paces’a you. Don’t you” he punctuated by a pop of his pointer finger to her kitten nose. “ever forget it.”

“Mmm, i’m always happy to be reminded. Betelgeuse.” Lydia purred, kissing the cool palm of his hand before he could draw it away from her cheek. “We should probably clean a bit. Did you fill in the burial site already?”

Gnarled claws snapped and she had her answer. 

“My parents will be home in the morning. Let me blow out the candles--”

It was done with a jerk of his head, each candle snuffing around the room instantly, leaving the pair in moonless darkness. _Show off._

“Do the rest later. I’m not through with you yet.” She couldn’t see, but felt his lips draw near and she tilted her chin up to kiss him long and deep. “Wanna take this upstairs?”

“Bold of you to assume I can walk after digging you up, dragging you all the way here, getting you up on the table--”

“ _Poor you_.” he shot back, but kissed her quick and stirred. “Hold on, jelly-legs.”

Lydia nearly protested until she was hoisted into the air. She wrapped her arms over broad and familiar shoulders, pressed herself contentedly against his lightly haired chest as he floated them towards the staircase. The only sound was the rain pattering away and Lydia’s gentle, happy hum as they ascended towards her bedroom. 

_How deep is your love?_

_I really mean to learn_

_Cause we’re living in a world of fools_

_Breaking us down when they all should let us be_

_We belong to you and me_

_How deep is your love._

**Author's Note:**

> Boy it sure does take Suzy a long time to update. But for now, I hope this little smutlet was enough to hold you over. I listen to a lot of Bee Gees when I draw and the pun was too fun to resist. How deep is he? Oh, about six feet give or take. I swear my bigger stuff is in the works, but this idea has been rolling around in her head for a long while.
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> Suzy!


End file.
